Peter's Flower
by SITBOY.wench
Summary: Poppy is 16 when she is diagnosed with oosing to live with her grandma until she dies she gets whisked away by a boy with the power to change her fate but will she be able to stay with her love forever or will her disease catch her in the end?


_**Hello! So I hope you enjoy this as much as I'm going to enjoy writing this! just to let other readers know I HAVE NOT ABANDONED MY OTHER NARNIA/PERCY JACKSON STORY! I will be working on both of them so no pouting. . . ^_^' Now On With The Story! oh and one more thing In this story Peter Pan is about 17 years old, and the lost boys are from 7-14 years old. . .ENJOY! **_

_**Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN THE ORIGINAL PEOPLE OR OTHER THINGS. I ONLY OWN MY OWN CHARACTERS AND IDEAS.  
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><p><strong><em>CHAPTER 1: LOST TIME<em>**

**Dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death. **

_** ~ANNIE LENNOX **_

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><p>When I was a little kid my favorite place in the entire world to visit was my great great Grandma Wendy's house.<p>

It was nothing special I guess the Darling estate looked just like any other Victorian house in London, old, slightly run down with white paint peeling off the front in certain places. The house would sometimes get too cold during the winter and stiflingly hot during the harsher summers, the staircase creaked with almost every step you took, and the wallpaper in the nursery looked very old fashioned and slightly yellowed from old age. I suppose as a child things like that would fascinate you to no ends and I was no exception.

Most people would probably hate a place like that, but it was my safe haven, the one place I felt really secure. I would spend many long summers there with my great great Grandma Wendy and her care taker, and during that time she would tell me the most magnificent stories about a boy who could fly, a pirate so brutal that just looking at him for too long can give you nightmares and the adventures that the boy would have with his friends who deemed themselves the lost boys and his beautiful fairy.

They lived in a place where no one grows up, and the boy could never die. The boys name was Peter and his world was called Neverland.

Neverland, just the sound of it fills you with excitement and you become enchanted with the possibilities of the impossible becoming possible!

Oh how those stories would fascinate me!

I would desperately wish for someone like that to come and whisk me away on a grand adventure. Where I could battle fearsome pirates and hunt for hidden treasure and learn to fly even! The hours I would spend battling make-believe pirate captains in the back garden and all the nights I would spend sleeping on the ledge underneath the window staring at the second star to the right as I fell to sleep.

But alas, everyone must grow up at some point in their lives, I suppose some just earlier than others. I can still remember my last summer spent at that house. It was the best and ultimately the worst summer of my life. I was about 9 years old and lately my parents had been acting differently with me. They were always telling me to do or not to do something. "Poppy don't slouch, sit like a lady" or "Now now Poppy we are not a child behave like a young woman."

I spent that entire summer with Grandma Wendy and she made every single last second count. It was almost as if she knew that she wouldn't be seeing me again very often. Looking back I realize that she knew very well that that was my last summer with her. I can still remember the day my parents came to pick me up from her house. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and told me that she would see me next summer and that I better write her soon.

I remember how devastated I was when my parents told me the next summer that instead of going to Grandma Wendy's house I was going to finishing school in Ireland.

I cried myself to sleep that night and didn't talk to them for almost a whole year. I sent not one letter to them during summer finishing school and when I came back things were never quite the same with my parents. They were almost colder and less caring. Still my parents, but not the ones I was used to seeing.

They were less tolerant of me then and I later learned that they were not the same people they used to be. They had climbed up the social status and had no time to spend on their young daughter. Eventually I gave up trying to reconnect with them and settled for merely being seen not heard, and only spoke to them when spoken to.

That all changed however when I became very very ill on my 16th birthday. I had been feeling slightly off for a while and had been meaning to bring it up at some point to my parents, but I either couldn't hold their attention for long enough or I just forgot to mention it at dinner one evening.

Either way, I could tell that I was in no way getting any better.

I suppose that I learned to work around the bothersome pain and simply put it to the back of my mind that is until I nearly fainted one day during breakfast. I got up for one second to put the orange juice back in the fridge when BAM- the pain hit me like a ton of bricks.

It was almost unbearable, it felt like a gnawing inside my stomach, as if something was trying to eat its way towards my back. I doubled over when it struck and almost as if in slow motion the antique glass carton that my mother had so proudly found at a garage sale flew from my hands and smashed onto the marble floor, the glass scattering across the room in a million little pieces.

The last thing I saw was my mother's hands frantically reaching for me as I fell over onto my knees, and then my world went fuzzy and gray. When I eventually got my sight back my mother demanded that I tell her what was going on and later that morning after explaining about the mysterious pain she sped me off to the doctors.

I wish she hadn't.

Things would have been much simpler if she hadn't taken me to the doctors.

Because I had to sit and listen to her weeping to the doctors and hear my father demanding to know how a girl of only 16 could develop such a deadly and fast spreading case of Pancreatic Cancer and nobody could even see the symptoms, and hear them both as they screamed at them when they couldn't give the right answers. I guess I always suspected that it was something more than a mere stomachache or burst cyst. So when the doctors came in to my room with the test results and told me that I have about 3 weeks left I simply smiled and nodded my head in acknowledgment.

This baffled them I think, I also believe I surprised them when I said that I didn't want to have any more painful tests done if they already knew what was wrong. My parents of course objected when I said I didn't want the chemo treatment as well, but in the end I won saying that it's irreversible anyway and it would take more than Chemo to make me better.

It was when we were finally at home that I said that I wanted to go to stay with Grandma Wendy in her house until I died. It was and still is my dying wish. So that's how I ended up standing with my duffel bag on the steps of her house with only 3 weeks left to live. I wonder where did all my lost time run off to? I suppose it doesn't matter now.

If only I'd known how wrong I was.


End file.
